The blade flashed, and Bree screamed. A trickle of red appeared on his palm. She pushed past him, but he caught her arm, spinning her around. A jolt shocked her, and they both flinched. His blood was warm and sticky against her skin. She decided she’d die fighting.

Pulling free, she grabbed the shovel from the floor and swung it at his head. He stopped it with one hand, tossed the shovel deep into the crypt, and shoved her against the wall. She flailed with her fists and then lifted her knee. He pinned it between his thighs. She was trapped. She sagged against him, waiting for the blade to plunge, but the only thing she felt was a hard body in damp clothes holding her still.

“Impossible,” he muttered, releasing her. He stepped back, the dagger still red with his blood. “Who are you?”

“I’m Bree. Who are you? Why did you do that?” she asked, staring at his hand.

“To be sure.” He wiped the blade on his kilt and slid it into a sheath at his side. “Where’s Druan?” he demanded.

“I don’t know anyone named Druan,” she said, wincing as she touched her stinging face. At least he’d put the dagger away.

He frowned and leaned closer, studying her cheek. She stood, not breathing, as warm, calloused fingers brushed her face and dark eyes reflected the lantern’s golden glow.

“It can’t be.” He stared at his hand as if it had betrayed him. “You fell hard,” he said, his voice softer, with an accent she couldn’t place. “Are you okay?”

No, she wasn’t okay. There was a dead man talking to her. And he looked familiar. “You tried to kill me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sorry he’d tried, or sorry he’d failed?

“Where am I?” he asked, muddy fingers grazing the crypt wall.

“Where? New York, near Albany…” She gulped. “Earth.”

“How did I get here?”

“New York, the crypt, or earth?”

“How did I get in a crypt?” he asked quietly, and she knew the question wasn’t intended for her. A better one would be how he’d gotten out—alive. She looked at the disk, still in the lock. Locks weren’t made just to keep things out. They also kept things in. Her stomach took a hard dive. A ghost would be one thing, but ghosts didn’t bleed.